


Almost

by avi17



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character sort-of death, Gen, M/M, Or at least a less bleak ending than usual from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 04:55:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21220931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avi17/pseuds/avi17
Summary: Forsyth does not like this plan.This time, his worries are justified.





	Almost

**Author's Note:**

> MY BOYS ARE IN HEROES
> 
> Y'all I literally started this over two years ago while I was still playing SOV XD There have been like eight of this type of fic for these two since. Do I care? Nope.
> 
> This actually was inspired by a discussion of what a spell that reduces you to 1 hp would actually do in the real world, and it just kind of spiraled from there.

Forsyth does not like this plan. It isn't even that he's been asked to stand down- though that never sits well with his desire to rush to the front lines- but that everything about it makes him uneasy. Fear Mountain is aptly named- the very air has a murky quality about it that has the whole army on edge, and the echo of Nuibaba’s laughter seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. It is risky to even go near her- their healers are still on the other side of the massive mansion, out of harm's way from terrors and the precarious climb around the sides, but also too far back to be much help. Clive is clear in his orders- the only soldiers to do so are those who can attack from a distance and dodge a counterattack swiftly. Forsyth is neither of these. 

When he demands to go with Python nevertheless, Clive's refusal is sympathetic but firm. 

"Don't worry about me, Fors," Python says wryly, clapping him on the shoulder. "Get in, get out, right? Piece of cake." He chuckles. "Hag won't know what hit her."

Forsyth thinks he catches a flash of apprehension in Python's eyes behind the sarcasm, but it's gone before he can address it. So he roughly clasps the back of his friend's neck and brings their foreheads together. "Alright, just...be careful," he murmurs in reluctant defeat. 

"Yeah, yeah." Python rolls his eyes, laughing, and then he's gone.

Forsyth tries to keep sight of him, but is immediately cut off by a dread fighter sporting an ugly snarl and the dead, black eyes of the Duma Faithful. Suppressing a shudder- he still hates meeting those eyes, no matter how many times he sees them- he throws up his shield just in time to block a slashing blade. But the man is wickedly fast, and another comes, and another, and if Forsyth fights distracted by trying to watch Python, he’ll end up dead. He ducks behind his shield, letting the blows glance harmlessly off the thick metal until he spots an opening. He dispatches the enemy with a single spear-thrust, and turns quickly away from the spreading pool of murky, corrupted blood in search of another glimpse of blue hair.

From across the chaotic field, Nuibaba looks supremely unconcerned at being outnumbered and surrounded by Python, Tobin, and Kliff. Indeed, they look to be on the defensive despite their numbers, horses tightly reined, peeking around corners to avoid the range of her magic. “Come, cowards!” she calls, voice full of sinister mirth and tinged with a seductiveness that Forsyth finds to be anything but appealing. “Will you not embrace your death face-to-face?”

“The only death today is yours!” Tobin calls, but his hastily-fired arrow flies wide by almost a foot and he immediately ducks back behind a pillar.

With a smirk that could freeze anyone's blood, Nuibaba laughs again. "The child needs more target practice, it seems," she croons. "How  _ sad.  _ Now, as for you," she hisses, rounding on Python- the only one out in the open, Forsyth realizes suddenly- and raising hands that begin to glow violet. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have come out to play after all. You’ve merely exchanged cowardice for folly.”

"That's right, you old bitch," Python growls in response. “Right where I want you.”

_ Move, _ Forsyth prays.  _ Don't be a fool, move!  _ But for once in Python's life, he stands his ground. Grim and focused, steadying his aim as his horse shifts nervously beneath him, he draws.

"What are you doing?! Get out of the way!" Tobin yells, echoing exactly what Forsyth is thinking as he leans out from his hiding place long enough to put an arrow through a gargoyle. The spell materializes into a form Forsyth has never seen before- a looming, monstrous face, ghostly snakes for hair, and lamplike eyes trained on Python. 

"Hang on, I've got a shot!" Python shouts back, pointing the arrow directly between the spectral face's glowing eyes. 

It flies a split second before the massive spell engulfs him, and finds its mark squarely in the hollow of Nuibaba's throat. There is barely time for the blood to blossom forth before Clair dives low enough from the sky to thrust a javelin through her back, and with an awful, distorted shriek, she is gone. Forsyth can feel the air around him clear of her suffocating aura, feel the collective sigh of relief from the troops around him, but his eyes are fixed on Python. The purple glow of the magic has dissipated, and Forsyth's heart is in his throat as he waits for the bow knight to turn back to the army, shrug as he often does or make an inevitable flippant comment about how much he needs a nap. But Python is as still as a statue, and Forsyth's feet are already moving of their own volition- orders be damned- when he slowly begins to slide sideways from his horse.

Despite casting aside his shield, Forsyth's newly acquired heavier armor is ill-suited for sprinting, and he's still stumbling up the steps when Python hits the ground with a heavy thud and lies in a motionless heap. Head spinning slightly from heat and overexertion, Forsyth drops to his knees too hard beside the prone archer and drags him over onto his back. Python is heavier than he used to be as well- both with his own new armor and a limp dead weight that does nothing to calm the racing of Forsyth's heart. His dark eyes are open, staring glassy and unseeing at the night sky, and his lips are slightly parted in what looks like mild surprise. That blank, lifeless face makes Forsyth's blood run cold, and he grasps Python's shoulders and shakes a little too vigorously. 

"F-for goodness' sake, Python, get up!" he says. It comes out wrong, wobbly with nervous laughter. But Python's head lolls to the side, his expression frozen, and it's then that Forsyth looks to his chest for the rise and fall of breath and sees nothing. 

"...Python?" he breathes. The crashing footsteps and yells of the rest of the army catch up with him just as his dauntless optimism falters and he begins to panic. 

He prays to anyone listening that this is a game, a prank like Python used to pull to see how hard Forsyth would try to rouse him- but even Python isn't good enough to fake this. But Forsyth is nothing if not persistent, so he shakes him harder, vaguely aware that he is begging him to wake, his voice lost amidst the clanking of armor and the dying shrieks of the final terrors and enemy soldiers. He cups Python's still face in his hands, and the skin is still warm against his fingers- that must mean something, surely it would not be so if he were-

"Forsyth." A hand closes around one of his wrists, and he whips around to see Lukas kneeling next to him. He presses his hand beside Forsyth's to Python's cheek, quietly examining, but there's a somber, tight-lipped resolution on his face that Forsyth cannot-  _ will _ not- accept. He has seen death up close the way only a soldier does, and he's seen this in his nightmares more times than he cares to admit, but there are always wounds, fire, _ blood. _ This clean, untouched body and empty stare cannot be _ it. _

"Forsyth...I'm sorry." Lukas' tone is calm and impassive as ever, even as Forsyth's chest constricts painfully and he feels hot, stinging tears begin to well up in his eyes. He is seized by a sudden urge to shove Lukas and his perfect composure away, to hit him, to do violence to anyone who tries to soothe him with empty words of comfort. He settles for ripping his wrist from Lukas' grasp, and brings his trembling hand back down to brush a lock of sweaty blue hair from Python's face. It is the most gently Forsyth has touched him in some time- between the battles and the bickering, they've let the affection between them fall by the wayside too often. Some tiny, pathetic part of him hopes that will wake him, that Python will huff and roll his eyes and call him a sap, like always. But Python's face remains frozen and paper-white, and grows slippery wet as Forsyth begins to weep.

"Forsyth," Lukas murmurs again, resting a hand on the green knight's armored shoulder, "we should move him. We can't leave him here." Forsyth flinches from his touch and rounds on him once more with wild, reddened eyes- to lash out, to demand that he leave- but before he can speak, a new voice breaks through the din.

"Yes, yes- come now, let me through!" the voice snaps, and its owner squeezes and shoves its way through several larger bodies using the handle of a heavy, ornate staff. It's a sage, the one with the pointed face and flame-red hair, whose name Forsyth is too lost in his grief to even remember right now. He drops to his knees on Python's other side and examines him with wide, fascinated eyes. "I had to see the results," he breathes, looking almost admiring. "I never expected to witness that spell in person."

Lukas frowns. "This is not the time for academic curiosity, Luthier." Luthier, that was it. Forsyth has never spoken to the man beyond a cursory greeting- he had assumed he would have little in common with someone who devoted himself to his studies as fervently as Forsyth rejected them. Right now, Forsyth wants him gone, choked with rage at the man's gawking. But as always, Lukas still has his wits about him, and asks, "Can anything be done to revive him?"

"That depends." Holding the back of his hand in front of Python's parted lips for several moments, Luthier frowns. "It is not within my power to reawaken the dead." Upon hearing that word so matter-of-factly spoken aloud, the last tenuous thread of Forsyth's hope snaps; the tears come unrestrained, and it is only the firm grip of Lukas' hand on his shoulder that keeps him upright (and when had Lukas done that again?) But Luthier is still talking, and through some force of will, he forces himself to listen.

"But this spell," the sage grunts, reaching down to fiddle with the hooks on Python's collar, "is known as Medusa, because the paralysis it inflicts upon its victims is so complete that they seem as lifeless as a carven statue. However, if the few sources I've found have been accurate, it should not be able to kill in a single blow..." He trails off, brow furrowed in concentration as he prods at the side of Python's neck. "If there is even the faintest...yes, there!" he exclaims in triumph, and before either of the knights can beg clarification, he hovers the head of his staff over Python's chest and begins to chant.

Forsyth hardly dares to hope again, hardly dares to even  _ breathe _ . As Luthier's voice drones a string of words in the ancient language of magic, a healing white light whose warmth Forsyth can feel in his bones spreads over all four of them and illuminates the filthy, cracked tiles of the floor. It hurts to look straight at it, but Forsyth refuses to look away, his gaze fixed upon Python's face.

For the longest moment of his life, nothing happens.

Then suddenly, every muscle in Python's body goes rigid, his back arches, and he gasps for air like a drowning man pulled from the water.

Relief crashes over Forsyth like a tidal wave, every thought in his mind driven out by a single, repeating word-  _ alive, alive,  _ ** _alive_ ** _ . _

Scrambling to do something tangible to help, he lifts Python's head off of the stone floor so he won't hurt himself while he chokes and coughs. "Python," he breathes, voice wrecked from crying. "I-it's....you're.... oh,  _ thank Mila.… _ " He tries to dredge up his usual encouraging tone, though it’s still quavering and weak. “I-I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

Python doesn't seem to hear him, and after a moment, it's clear that something is still wrong. His breathing comes in painful wheezes, chest heaving as though he's suffocating, and his white lips begin to tinge gray-blue. Panic immediately setting back in, Forsyth looks to Luthier, but he merely 'tsk's quietly, as though it's no more than a minor inconvenience. He mutters to himself as he works, and all Forsyth catches is  _ ‘some lingering paralysis- isolated- lungs, maybe diaphragm’  _ before the white light washes over Python again, brighter and stronger this time.

When the flash fades, Python stills, and once Forsyth blinks the spots from his vision, he finds Python’s eyes closed and his mouth slack as if in sleep. The fear briefly spikes again, but pink has begun to diffuse back over the sickly white of his skin, and his chest rises and falls with gentle ease. Unconscious, yes- but breathing.  ** _Alive._ **

As his adrenaline crashes, Forsyth feels suddenly and distinctly like he's going to throw up. Luthier sags as well, breathing hard- the amount of magic required has obviously drained him. Forsyth could throw his arms around the man if he felt like he could move. He resolves to offer his sincerest thanks later.

The clamor of battle has faded now, and for the first time, Forsyth catches the voices of curious onlookers. He’s too drained to be embarrassed that half the Deliverance has been watching his display of grief, but it still feels intrusive. Python is so deliberately nonchalant, hates so much to be vulnerable- it feels wrong for anyone to see him like this. “We should-” Forsyth chokes out before his traitorous voice deserts him again.

Lukas nods with the faintest hint of a relieved smile. “Of course.” Bending down, he slides one hand under Python’s shoulders and the other under his knees, and hoists him carefully over his shoulder. He stands slowly but steadily, and Forsyth is glad of his understanding but envies him again for his damned unflappable composure. He wants to protest, to demand to take Python himself, but it feels as though all his strength has deserted him and he wouldn't trust his trembling hands. He stumbles to his feet regardless, but before he can speak, Lukas presses the reins of Python's horse into his hands. He breathes, fingers tightening, and is immediately grateful- yes, this is  _ something _ he can do. Lukas nods, meeting Forsyth's eyes and murmuring, "It's alright. I've got him."

After a moment, Forsyth sighs in defeat and gives a shaky nod.

Lukas turns toward the castle, businesslike again. “I’ll send for you as soon as I’ve found somewhere safe for him to rest.”

A strange numbness begins to settle in Forsyth’s chest as he watches Lukas’ retreating back, Python’s head and arms dangling like a rag doll over his shoulder. Only when they are out of sight does he finally remember the reins in his grip, and with a last, deep breath, he walks slowly to find the stables.

–

Forsyth knows immediately when Python wakes, because the first thing he does is groan like a disgruntled bear waking from hibernation. This is fortunate, as it snaps the knight back to full awareness from where he had been slowly nodding off in a carven chair beside the bed where Python slept. While he had stabled Python's horse and taken a moment alone to calm himself, Lukas had deposited the unconscious archer in the first bedroom he had found serviceable and returned to his duties, leaving him to Forsyth to watch and promising to check on them later. Forsyth had truly intended to stay awake, but after removing his armor and settling in, sleep had crept upon him quickly. 

Shaking away the lingering exhaustion, he leans in to watch the welcome sight of Python's eyes sliding open, bleary but finally aware, slowly taking in his surroundings.

"Not the way I would have chosen to redecorate Zofia Castle," he mutters, gaze sliding over the ornate sconces and strange, grim tapestries draping the walls. His voice is rough, cracking painfully, and Forsyth shakes his head as he reaches for a skin of water.

"You've only been out for a few hours." He tips the skin and pours a thin stream of water into Python's mouth, relieved that he seems well enough to swallow. Python drinks gratefully, but shrinks from Forsyth's touch with a grimace when he uses a thumb to wipe away a trail of excess water from the corner of his mouth. Despite his habitual laziness, the archer dislikes being coddled like a child- Forsyth knows that- but the fact that he hasn't snatched the skin himself means that he is not yet able. Forsyth pours him more water and keeps talking to distract himself from his concern. "We're inside Nuibaba's manor. We've bedded down for the night to rest and search for supplies or prisoners." He glances around the small room and adds, "We are fortunate- this place is big enough to have housed twice as many soldiers as she had. But at least that means there are plenty of beds."

"Damn..." Python laments, weakly pushing the water skin away and struggling to pull himself a little more upright. "I guess it was too much to hope for that I'd slept through the rest of the war."

In spite of all the fear and worry of the day, Forsyth chuckles at that. "I'm afraid so." Python is sweaty and pale, like even partway sitting up had taken far too much effort, and he frowns. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got landed on by a Pegasus," the archer groans. "Is that something that happened after I blacked out? I saw Clair blazin' out of the sky pretty fast, and that mount of hers has never liked me much."

Forsyth ignores that, but in spite of himself, he's curious. "Is that the last thing you remember?"

For a moment, Python looks puzzled. "...Sort of? It's kinda hard to explain." He muses for a moment before continuing. "I couldn't really see or hear anything, but I wasn't...totally out? Felt you shaking me around like a sack of potatoes, if nothin' else." He shakes his head with a small roll of his eyes. "At least I assume that was you."

Forsyth pales and his gaze drops away from Python to where his hands have balled into fists on his lap. "I'm sorry, I just-"

Python holds up a hand to stop him. "Don't. I get it." The archer shrugs. "Honestly? I couldn't tell much of what was goin’ on, but I figured I was a goner. So thanks for...y'know. Making sure that wasn't the case."

It's rare to hear Python offer such sincere thanks, but it does little to ease Forsyth's mind about how the earlier events had transpired. "You have Luthier to thank for saving you, not me. And Lukas for carrying you from the field. ...Everything happened so fast," he admits with a sigh of misery. "I'm afraid I was thoroughly useless."

Python frowns. "Don't start beatin' yourself up again. You're a soldier, no one expects you to be able to pull healing magic out of your ass."

For once, Forsyth lets his crass phrasing go. "I know, that's...not it." Forsyth is not the sort to hide things- he is very aware that he normally wears his heart on his sleeve for anyone to see. It isn't that he wishes to keep anything from Python, but he doesn't feel quite ready- or able- to articulate how utterly helpless he felt in that moment. They've had several close shaves in the past- brushes with death are practically part of the job description now that they're in enemy territory. But anytime Python was in danger, Forsyth was right there with him, to protect him and scold him later for being careless- until today. Now, he can't even tear into Python for his foolishness in taking such a potentially deadly blow, because they won, and isn't this what he has been demanding of him this entire time? How many times has he pushed the man to pull his weight, to step up and fight with everything he has like the rest of them?

Python finally did, and Forsyth nearly lost him.

It's a raw, jumbled mess, and Forsyth is afraid to open his mouth lest it all come pouring out at once. But Python is staring him in the eye, half-lidded and expectant, so he tries. 

"You almost-" he chokes on the words, but knows that Python understands. His gaze darts away from those eyes and fixes upon one of the tapestries. "You are here," he begins again, in a tinier voice than he would have thought himself capable, "because I talked you into coming with me. So if something-" he pauses to swallow, his mouth suddenly very dry, "-were to happen to you, that would be on my shoulders. Because of my _ stupid dream. _ .”

Upon having his own words flipped back at him, Python sighs, sinking back into the pillow. "Give me a little credit, Fors. Yeah, I'm here because you're here. If I didn't know you, I'd probably still be loafing around the village and avoiding my pa's woodshop. And yeah, that might be less dangerous, unless I up and died of boredom" he admits. "But I'm not some servant you ordered to accompany you. I'm with you because I want to be."

It's the closest Python has ever come to any sort of heartfelt confession, and it may well be as close as he ever gets. Forsyth tucks those words away in a private corner of his heart, to recall the next time he is at his wits' end with Python's complaining and wondering why he didn't just stay home. 

Still, there's something he doesn't understand, and he asks almost pleadingly, "Why did you do that?"

Python looks confused. "Do what? Come with you?"

"Let her hit you."

"Oh. That." Python is silent for a long moment, then offers a halfhearted shrug. "Guess it was my turn to scare you for once."

Immediately riled, Forsyth glares at him and snaps, "Don't joke about that!"

The archer grimaces, but stares Forsyth in the eye right back and asks, "You think I'm joking?" With a sigh, he continues. “Look, I didn't do it on purpose. I guess I thought I could still dodge, or...hell, I don't know what I thought. Somebody had to get her before she went after the rest of you.” His eyes fall closed again, and Forsyth’s heart pounds in immediate fear, the memories still too fresh. But he seems to be merely thinking, and when he opens them, his gaze is solemn and fixed on the tapestry straight ahead. “These damn battles...they get uglier every time. More dangerous.” He swallows thickly, lips pressed into a thin line. “How many times do you think we can scrape by before one of us bites it?" 

At those words, Forsyth remembers the peculiar look on Python's face when he had staggered back to him at the end of a skirmish, a well-aimed arrow sticking out from between his pauldron and breastplate, green armor smeared with red. It had barely been two weeks since.

“You can’t think like that,” he says, but his voice is shaky and lacking its usual conviction. Python is right- their outlook seems to grow grimmer every time they step onto the field, their near-misses getting nearer and nearer- but if he allows those thoughts to take hold, the despair will overwhelm him. There is a time for fear and for grief, but if he lets it follow him onto the battlefield, he will fail. Fail to serve and honor Sir Clive...and fail to protect Python. “We will come out alive,” he says, with as much certainty as he can muster. “Together.”

Python looks back to him, sounding fond but skeptical. “You really believe that?”

_ “Yes!" _ The outburst echoes, too big for the small room. After a moment, his tense shoulders deflate, and the rest comes out soft and vulnerable. “...I have to.”

The silence hangs heavily between them after that, and Python struggles to take another drink of water. There's nothing more either of them can say on the topic, so Forsyth finds a new one. "Your horse is well."

Python brightens a little at that. "Good. The poor bastard has enough work lugging me around without getting a faceful of that nasty magic." He says it with yet another roll of his eyes, but Forsyth knows he's quietly rather fond of his mount and can hear the relief in his voice.

He shakes his head, amused. "I'll admit, it's strange to see you on horseback rather than walking at my side."

"Being dragged at your side, you mean," Python snorts. "Maybe we should find you a horse, too."

They won't, because as much as Forsyth longs for the gallantry of knighthood and all it entails, he's never had much luck keeping balanced atop a horse. But the suggestion is an old joke- when they were younger, Python had teased that the animals were out to get him, after his neighbor's irritable old cart horse had thrown Forsyth from its back for the third time that week. He'd been much less amused when Forsyth had declared that that only meant that someday, when they left the village, they would be doing so on foot.

The memory makes Forsyth smile, if a little sadly. After years of Python lounging in the shade while he trained, and grumbling while he marched several feet behind, Forsyth never expected to be the one chasing after  _ him. _

Python lets out a yawn- a genuine one, not the exaggerated yawns he uses to fake being asleep to avoid work. “I hope we're planning to rest here for longer than just tonight , because I'm not leaving this bed for at least a week.”

That’s quite a fantasy- it will be a miracle if they are able to stay past tomorrow morning- but he allows Python to entertain it for the moment and merely shakes his head in amusement. He can feel his energy beginning to waver again, and he stands a bit too hastily in an effort to seem alert. “I should get a healer to check on you,” he says quickly with a glance toward the door. “Or at least some food, if you’re up to eating.”

Python grunts indistinctly. "Later.” His gaze is shrewd, and Forsyth knows that his own state has not gone unnoticed. “You look like death warmed over. Get your ass in here, there's room for one more."

There isn't, really- the bed is small, and Forsyth is broader in the shoulders than most. But Python rolls over as best he can, so Forsyth shucks his boots and climbs into the narrow open space, curling up on his side so they can lie back-to-back. It's cramped and uncomfortable, and even facing away from him, he can smell Python's foul breath- but that can be taken care of in the morning, and Forsyth is still too glad that he's breathing at all to care.

They lie there in silence for several long, tranquil minutes, and Forsyth tries to focus on nothing but the warm, solid press of Python's back, and the way it expands against his own as he inhales. His mind and body are both spent, and desperately needs to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before he has to leave Python to the healers and return to work- there will be too much to do for him to stay past morning. But when he allows his eyes to fall closed, the image of Python's white, dead face is burned inside his eyelids, and, heart pounding, he snaps them back open.

He must have gasped aloud, because Python shifts against him with a vague noise of concern, and he grits his teeth until they ache to try to hold everything together. But the weight of the day is too much, and the fragile bit of composure he has left cracks and shatters like glass. He takes a wretched, shuddering breath, and all at once, he begins to sob. 

There is more movement behind him that must be Python turning back over, and a bony arm wraps around him and laces their fingers together. “Hey...” Python murmurs, hoarse but surprisingly gentle. “’S okay, buddy. Let it out. I’m here.”

_ I’m here. _ He grips Python’s hand too hard, tries to let it ground him, but it still takes time to calm his crying and begin to breathe again. The pillow beneath his cheek is damp and rapidly growing cold, but he is unwilling to move even an inch away. “Just...stay with me next time. If you can.” It comes out like it could mean anything- next time they go to battle together, or next time they bed down for the night- but rather than teasing, Python just lets out a wry chuckle.

“Sir, yes sir.” His words are slurred as he begins to doze off, but Forsyth still catches them. “I always do.”

Forsyth can only pray that he means it.

Python is already asleep again, arm limp and heavy, snoring quietly- with his terrible breath- into Forsyth's ear. Forsyth closes his eyes again, and this time the Python he sees is young and carefree, napping beneath an orange tree in the languid afternoon sun. It is an image of times long past that he knows they will never see again, but for now it comforts him. He gives Python’s hand a fond squeeze.

_ They’ll make it through together. They have to. _

In a few hours, the sun will come streaming in the window, and Lukas will be back with their morning rations and, most likely, orders to pack up and move out. The war marches inexorably on, and what they’ve been through tonight will not slow it down. But if a few hours is all they have, Forsyth will take them. He scoots back a little closer beneath Python’s arm, and hopes that the warm, comforting weight will help him sleep untroubled by dreams until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is always greatly appreciated :) (Let me know who out there still loves these idiots!)


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